


Pretty

by foxfireflamequeen



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Feminization, Kink Discovery, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 20:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxfireflamequeen/pseuds/foxfireflamequeen
Summary: First, there's a dress in a shop.





	Pretty

 

 

The first time Yuri notices anything, they’re walking past a Prada outlet with Gucci bags in hand, new suits fitted for the banquet the next night. Viktor lingers by the window, and Yuri follows his gaze towards the flowered dress on a mannequin posed like an amateur _balerina_.

“You’re delusional if you think I’m going to wear that for you,” Yuri barks, cranky and cold and hungry because Viktor takes _forever_ to shop. “If you want a girl, you can find one somewhere else.”

Viktor looks at him, startled. “Don’t be silly, Yura,” he says after a moment. “I was just looking.”

“Right,” Yuri mutters, but before he turns away he sees Viktor cast another glance at the display. For a split second he looks almost—wistful.

Yuri tries to ignore it, but something at the back of his mind sits up and starts paying attention.

 

 

 

Viktor is weird a lot, but there are days when he’s weirder than usual. Yuri comes home from practice to an apartment that smells like burned bread, with Viktor standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing a pink apron and matching oven mitts. Makkachin barks at him in welcome, and Viktor jumps like he didn’t hear Yuri come in.

“Leave it,” he snaps, making a beeline for their room, like if he walks fast enough Yuri won’t see how upset he is. “I’ll clean it up later.”

Yuri leaves it, and goes to shower in the guest bathroom because Viktor has closed the bedroom door. Makkachin follows him, tail wagging, and Yuri spares him a confused glare.

“Why the fuck was he trying to make _bread?_ ” he wants to know. “We _buy_ bread.”

Makkachin only whuffs. Viktor’s dog is about as useless as he is.

 

 

 

“You left this in the apartment,” Yuri tosses Mila the tube. Mila pops the cap open, takes one look inside, and says, “Nope.”

“Ask Georgi,” Yuri says, distracted by his skate guards. Mila snorts.

“It’s too bright for him, and Georgi doesn’t wear Chanel,” she says. “You realize that the only people who can really afford Chanel lipstick on the regular are you and Viktor.”

“Huh,” Yuri says, and catches the tube when she tosses it back. “Never seen him wear it.”

Mila shrugs. “Maybe he bought it and didn’t like it,” she says. “That man is a hoarder.”

 

 

 

It would make sense, only the lipstick is dulled down and stubbed from use. Viktor never goes out without patting on his BB cream and dabbing on a generous amount of tinted lip balm, or gloss. He was the one who taught Mila to blend out her eyeshadow and the best way to wing her eyeliner, and Mila in turn taught Yuri. Viktor whines at Yuri when Yuri spends a few hours in the kitchen for a homecooked meal, and frankly Yuri’s not sure he realizes at all when there’s too much salt in the food. There are magazine photographs of Viktor in short shorts and a crop top, full-face makeup and heels, going out to drag shows with Christophe Giacometti. If Viktor wanted to wear red lipstick, he would. If he wanted to buy himself a dress, it’s unlikely Lilia Nikitichna could stop him. There’s no need for secrecy.

It would make sense, only it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

 

 

 

Yuri overdoes it on the lube. It squelches unpleasantly as he works two fingers into Viktor, and Viktor doesn’t even need it right now. He’s already loose and relaxed from his orgasm; Yuri could probably slip into him with spit and minimal prep.

“Dammit,” Yuri says, wiping his hand on the sheets. Viktor’s dick is soft and limp, but he lifts his hips eagerly when Yuri lines up. Yuri pushes in so easily it’s almost unsatisfying, but Viktor lets out a long, contented sigh and lifts his chin for a kiss, and fuck, he’s so fucking _pretty_. Yuri’s hips snap forward of their own volition, hitting Viktor’s ass with a wet slap of flesh. Yuri does it again, then has to laugh.

“You’re so wet,” he says, moving his hips just to hear the filthy sound. “Is this what it’s like to fuck a girl?”

He’s expecting Viktor to say something mean about Yuri’s inexperience, or point out that he’s never fucked a girl, either. What he doesn’t expect is Viktor’s breath catching in his chest, or the way his cock twitches against his stomach, a full hour before he should be able to go again.

 _Oh_ , Yuri thinks, caught off-guard. There’s a dark flush spreading down Viktor’s neck, his eyes wide and embarrassed. Viktor licks his lips, and for a split second Yuri imagines them smeared a deep, messy red. His balls pull tight with arousal.

There’s no good way to be reassuring about this when his dick is literally inside Viktor. Yuri leans down to kiss him, and focuses on fucking him into a second orgasm because at least that seems doable tonight.

 

 

 

Viktor isn’t going to bring it up, that much is obvious. Yuri should probably take some initiative and start a conversation.

The thing is, they both kinda suck at the talking part.

 

 

 

Yuri grunts a noncommittal greeting, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Viktor tosses his keys onto the dining table and Makkachin greets him with slobbering kisses. Viktor turns towards him and Yuri hastily bends his head over his phone.

“You should go look in the bedroom,” he says, before Viktor can come over to the couch and collapse on him like an overgrown koala. There’s a short pause; Yuri can imagine perfectly Viktor’s eyebrows going up.

“Oh?” Viktor asks, not even trying to hide his excitement. “Did you get me a present, Yura?”

The idiot loves receiving presents as much as he likes handing them out. Yuri has the wayward thought that if this doesn’t blow up in his face, he should invest in a couple more of those.

“It’s not a present,” Yuri says, even though it is. “Go look already!”

“Of course it’s not,” Viktor says, exasperated, but his footsteps recede down the hall. Yuri has no fucking idea what he’s going to do if he read this wrong. Move out and go live with Mila, probably.

There’s silence from the bedroom. Yuri taps uselessly at the dark screen of his phone and thinks, at least he isn’t laughing.

Five minutes pass, then ten. Yuri gets up to reheat their premade dinners, and resolutely does not go knock on the door. If Viktor fell asleep in there, Yuri’s going to break up with him.

The door opens again when Yuri’s bending down to grab the plates from the oven, over an hour later. The flat pair of sandals Yuri left in the room are almost soundless on the carpeted floor.

“Well?” Viktor asks after a moment. “What do you think?”

Yuri opens his mouth, then closes it. Mila would never touch that dress, but it’s similar to the one Viktor was looking at, weeks and weeks ago. The cupped sleeves make his shoulders look narrower, and the neckline is as modest as the length, falling past his knees.

Viktor’s done up his face, too, with black mascara instead of his custom slate gray. His eyes look huge and foreign, surrounded by dark lashes. He’s wearing the red lipstick Yuri dropped back on top of the dresser where he found it.

“Um,” Yuri says intelligently. His throat is dry. “You look nice?”

 _Nice_ is the wrong word. Viktor looks _soft_ , and _sweet_ , two things he can be but rarely is. He looks like something out of an old Soviet telenovela.

Viktor eyebrows draw down. “Nice,” he repeats, smoothing his hands down the skirt. His smile is just the wrong side of self-deprecating. He seems younger this way, like Yuri could put a long pale wig on his head and he could be the sixteen year-old boy from all the posters in aspiring skaters’ bedrooms around the world. Yuri doesn’t think it’s the dress.

He rounds the counter, leaving the plates in the oven and the mitts on the floor. “You look like a girl,” he says, because Viktor almost could, even with the flat front of his dress and too-broad shoulders.

That gets a reaction. Viktor’s lips part in surprise, and it gives Yuri the confidence he needs to crowd into his space.

“You look like my girl,” he says, low in Viktor’s ear, and feels more than hears Viktor’s breath stutter.

Okay, Yuri thinks. _Okay_ , he can do this. Viktor’s pulse is fluttering at his throat, his cheeks pink with more than powder blush. Yuri grabs his hips and in a single quick motion lifts him onto the kitchen counter, grunting with the effort.

“Fuck,” Viktor gasps, eyes big with surprise. Yuri grins up at him and steps between his legs. Like this Viktor’s even taller, but it puts Yuri closer to where he wants to be without having to go to his knees.

“So,” he says. “Do you like your present?”

“I thought it wasn’t a present,” Viktor says. Yuri resolutely does not punch him.

“Can you stop being a dick for five minutes and let me have this?” he demands, and Viktor leans down to press his lips to Yuri’s cheek. When he pulls away his eyes linger on the red print he must have left behind.

“Maybe,” he says, coy like he knows Yuri’s heart is going double-time already. “But I don’t see a ring on your finger. Or on mine.”

Yuri stares at him for a beat, then bursts into laughter. Viktor always makes this mistake; he always thinks Yuri’s going to be so _easy_.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Yuri rocks up on his toes to press a chaste kiss to Viktor’s lips. It doesn’t taste like anything, not like Viktor’s flavored shiny lip balms. “Is that what you want? A ring for your finger?”

Viktor blinks at him, startled, and Yuri finds the place over the dress where he’s growing hard. “Tell me what you want, then,” he cajoles, delighting in the bob of Viktor’s Adam’s apple when he squeezes. “Don’t you want to be good?”

That’s a cheap shot. Viktor shoots him a dirty look even as his hips push into Yuri’s palm like he can’t help himself, because he always, _always_ wants to be good. Yuri presses harder, earning a gasp, and Viktor puts both hands on his chest and sends him stumbling back a step.

“That’s not—” Viktor stops. He sits up straight, crosses his legs, and smooths his hands over the skirt like it’ll hide the bump right in the center. “Good girls don’t let people just waltz on over and put their hands between their legs.”

Viktor is an excellent liar, but he sounds like he’s reciting lines from a play. Yuri wants to strangle him, just a little.

“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps. “This would go a lot easier if you’d just let yourself have what you want instead of aggressively playing three rounds of pretend.”

Viktor’s smile flickers. “I’m not—” he starts, and Yuri cuts him off.

“Yeah, you are.” He pushes close again, and when Viktor tries to stop him Yuri grabs his wrists and pins them at his back. Viktor struggles, but with Yuri’s arms around him and his feet off the ground, he doesn’t have the leverage to get free.

“Quit tying yourself up in knots,” Yuri says, as annoyed by Viktor as he is by his persisting arousal. “You don’t have to pretend to be the kind of girl you think _I_ want you to be.”

Viktor goes still. “Oh,” he says. “But you said you wanted me to be—good?”

“I said you were _mine_ ,” Yuri says, fierce and unyielding and everything that makes reporters wary and Viktor’s eyes go dark. “You want me to get you a ring, I’ll get you a ring. You want to, I don’t know, cook me dinner and be my fucking wife, you can _do_ that. You can wear a dress and vacuum the fucking floor, and I’ll come home and fuck you in our bed. Do you really think you’re ever going to belong to anyone else?”

“No,” Viktor licks his lips. Yuri wants to bite at them until he bleeds. “I want that—I want, Yura. Please.”

Viktor’s _please_ is never sincere, not unless he’s spit-slick and crying on Yuri’s cock, but now. He’s sincere now. Yuri grips him harder, until he feels the bones shift under Viktor’s skin.

“Which part?” he demands.

“All of it,” Viktor says, devastatingly honest, and Yuri surges up to meet his mouth. Viktor makes a soft sound into the kiss that goes straight to Yuri’s cock, and this time when Yuri puts his hands on him, Viktor doesn’t stop him.

“Shit,” Yuri breathes, sucking along Viktor’s jaw, down his neck until he hits the neckline that’s more modest than most of Viktor’s shirts.

“I’ll buy you a ring,” he promises, and Viktor shivers so hard Yuri feels it in his toes. He _likes_ that, and god, Yuri loves that he likes it. “I’ll buy you a ring and make you my girl _properly_ , you can show it off to the world. Is that what you want? For everyone to know that you’re mine?”

“Yes,” Viktor winds his newly-freed arms around Yuri’s shoulders, hips rocking forward helplessly. “Yes, yes, _Yura_ —”

Yuri swallows the rest with another kiss, sucking Viktor’s tongue into his mouth. Viktor pulls him close with his legs around Yuri’s waist; Yuri can feel the nylon of his stockings, smooth over freshly-shaved skin. No wonder Viktor took an hour to get ready.

“Get this off,” Viktor tugs at Yuri’s shirt, and Yuri raises his arms to let him pull it over his head. They scrabble together at his pants until those drop to his ankles, too, followed by his underwear. Yuri stops, suddenly aware that he’s naked, and Viktor—

Viktor’s lipstick is smeared past the edges of his lips and down his jaw, just like Yuri imagined it would be. His chest is heaving, a big, obvious tent under his skirt that crossed legs couldn’t hide. He gazes at Yuri with heavy eyes, fully dressed and desperate for it, and for a split second Yuri almost understands why Viktor wants this.

Then it’s gone, and all that’s left is Viktor in a dress, eager hands and eager mouth, lipstick and mascara and—lace panties under his skirt.

“We shouldn’t have sex on the kitchen counter,” Yuri says, distracted. He wants to put his head under Viktor’s skirt. He wants Viktor to hold him there, trapped between his thighs with the smell of his cock.

Viktor must see it on his face, because he tugs the dress up, just past his knee. Not high enough.

“You put me here,” he reminds Yuri, trying and failing to collect himself. “Yura. Yura, don’t make me wait.”

Yuri never learned to say no to that voice, wrecked and pleading and not a thing like Viktor the Living Legend. He bends over Viktor’s crotch before Viktor can finish shaping his name, pushes his face under the skirt and breathes in the damp heat and musk. It feels safer down here, hidden from Viktor’s eyes. Easier, to give Viktor what he might want.

Viktor isn’t even wearing _men’s_ panties; Yuri can’t see much, but his nose bumps the head of Viktor’s cock, slick with precome and peeking above the waistline of a too-small lace thong. Yuri drags the slip of cloth down with his teeth and kisses the inside of Viktor’s thigh. A muscle jumps under his lips.

“Sometimes I want to keep you hidden away in this apartment, so no one else can have you,” he admits.

Viktor laughs above him, breathless. “I’d—let you,” he says, voice hitching as Yuri mouths at him, then suckles at the head. Slow, slow, then fast. Maybe the way a girl would like, Yuri doesn’t know, but he does know Viktor. “You’d have to keep me fed and clothed, and make sure to come home to me.”

There’s a hint right there, precarious and carefully dropped. Yuri will have to examine it later, but right now all he can think of is laying Viktor down on their stupid-big bed and fucking him lazily in the morning, leaving him there and going to practice, coming home to find him waiting. He imagines what it would be like to have Viktor sit on his face with a dress as long as this spread around him like a circus tent.

It would be so hard to breathe.

“Yura?” Viktor asks, and Yuri realizes he’s stopped, mouth slack and drooling. He feels hot all over, his cock hanging heavy between his legs.

“Nothing,” he says, embarrassed. Viktor laughs again, infuriatingly attractive even when he’s being an ass. _Nice_ is wasted on him; Yuri shoves him further down the length of the counter so he can rest his burning chest on the cool marble and blow Viktor properly, head bobbing over his hips, one hand cupping his balls and the other pumping him quick and tight. The fabric of Viktor’s dress rubs against his hair; it’s going to stick up every which way by the time he’s done. His lips will be puffy and red, Viktor pink from an orgasm. Yuri’s going to _look_ like he spent half an hour beneath Viktor’s dress, between Viktor’s thighs.

He moans with Viktor deep in his throat, and Viktor’s stomach caves in. He’s always so responsive when Yuri’s noisy. “Yura, _Yura_ ,” he whines, and Yuri slides his mouth off with a loud _pop_ and says, “Yeah, come on, Viktor.”

Except that doesn’t sound right. “Vitya,” Yuri tries again, and that’s better, but.

“Vit’enka,” he says, and that, _that_ sits perfect on his tongue, sweet enough for the pretty little wife Viktor wants to be today. Sweet enough for _Yuri’s_ wife, with clever blue eyes and a wicked smile.

“Vit’enka,” he says again. He strips Viktor with quick, efficient strokes. “C’mon, sweetheart.”

The sound Viktor makes is—Yuri’s never heard it before. It starts in the tremble of his belly and comes out in a frantic shout, and before Yuri knows what’s happening Viktor’s coming, thick and hot over Yuri’s face.

A drop of it slides down his upper lip. Yuri licks it off.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. Maybe he says it out loud, he doesn’t know, drowning in the smell of sweat and come and cloying, damp heat, every nerve ending alight with the knowledge that _he did that_ , and all it took was a few words.

Suddenly it’s too claustrophobic under the heavy layers of the skirt. Yuri scrambles out from under it, bare skin sticking to the marble. The cool air hits him like a drug just as Viktor makes a soft, wounded noise.

Viktor, who’s laying still where Yuri left him, save the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Viktor, sweaty and dazed, looking up at Yuri through dark, damp lashes like his whole world is centered on Yuri’s face.

Yuri needs to come, badly, but he grasps Viktor’s hips and pulls, sliding him close until his ass hits the edge of the counter. A distant part of his brain notes that that’s going to need disinfecting, but most of it is focused on Viktor.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

Viktor blinks at him for a second, uncomprehending. He gets this way sometimes, but never so fast, and never from just a blowjob. Then he smiles, so devastatingly beautiful Yuri almost looks away.

“Okay,” Viktor repeats, hazy. “You called me sweetheart.”

Yuri flushes. “I called you a lot of things,” he says, throat dry, and Viktor reaches up with clumsy fingers to touch Yuri’s cheek.

“I liked it,” he says.

Yuri’s cock jerks. There’s no way Viktor felt that, but his smile gains teeth. “Look at you; you’re _dripping_ with me,” he says, rubbing his thumb over a streak on Yuri’s cheek.

“And still wearing my mark,” he adds, low, and Yuri realizes it’s not the drying come that has Viktor’s attention. It’s the red of his lipstick, the kiss he left on Yuri’s cheek, careful enough that it must have kept the exact shape of Viktor’s mouth. A brand on a prize horse.

He swallows, turning his face into Viktor’s palm. Viktor is growing more alert by the second, cataloguing Yuri’s reaction with sharp, sharp eyes, and Yuri is helpless to stop him when he pulls Yuri into a deep, toe-curling kiss.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Viktor murmurs into Yuri’s mouth.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His ass lines up with Yuri’s hips as he slides off the counter and turns around, practiced and confident. Yuri watches him and wants—

Fuck. It’s _Viktor_. Yuri wants _everything_ , like he always has.

Viktor wriggles the panties down to his ankles as Yuri bunches up the hem of the dress in his fist. He pushes it up Viktor’s back, spits into his free palm, and finds Viktor’s hole.

Viktor is already slick.

Yuri sucks in a breath, loud, and Viktor huffs a laugh. “C’mon, Yura,” he says, coaxing now where he was shy before. He _planned_ this. Yuri can’t believe he didn’t see it coming, not when Viktor had the forethought to put on makeup and fucking _panties_ when Yuri wasn’t looking.

Yuri’s distaste for manipulation evidently doesn’t extend to his libido. Viktor must have thinking about this since he found the dress. He got himself ready for Yuri while Yuri preheated the fucking _oven_.

Viktor is undeterred by Yuri’s stunned silence; he fucks himself back on Yuri’s hand, arching his back just so, _presenting_ himself to Yuri. He’s such a _bastard_.

“It’s just like you said, Yura,” Viktor looks over his shoulder and bites his red-smeared lip. There’s a blush spreading down the back of his neck, but something as minor as embarrassment isn’t going to stop him. He angles himself better, groaning as Yuri’s fingers rub over his prostate. “You came home, and I was waiting, all dolled up just for you, and then. And then you kissed me, and put your mouth on me, and oh, you got me so wet. Do you feel that, Yura, I’m so _wet_ for you, I—”

Yuri doesn’t think about it. He _can’t_ , not with Viktor looking at him like that, with his ass clenching tight around his fingers and fucking— _talking_. Someone needs to ban Viktor from talking, forever, but then Yuri would be bored.

Some part of his brain remembers to go slow at first, but after that he can’t stop, fucking into Viktor so hard Viktor’s chest skids up the counter with every thrust. Yuri’s arms shake with how tight he’s gripping Viktor’s hips. He can hear himself grunting, uncontrolled and animalistic, and Viktor says, “Yes, _yes_ , come on, come in me, I’m yours, Yura, Yura, _Yura_.”

Yuri comes so fast he should be embarrassed, but all he’s capable of is putting his forehead to Viktor’s back, trembling with aftershocks. It’s Viktor who slips away from him, shushing his pathetic whimper with petal-soft kisses. It’s Viktor who unzips himself and lets the dress finally pool to the floor, and gathers Yuri up in his arms.

“Shh, Yura,” he says, stroking his hands down Yuri’s back and ignoring his oversensitive flinches. Yuri’s legs feel like jelly. “You did so well.”

Comfort should be Yuri’s role today, maybe, but Viktor’s just so much _better_ at it. Yuri’s okay here, in the circle of Viktor’s arms, Viktor soft against his thigh, skin sticking to skin. He tucks his face into Viktor’s neck, because there are too many things he’s not brave enough to say to Viktor’s face.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “I want to crawl inside your skin and live there.”

Viktor doesn’t even pause. Yuri’s so lucky there’s something equally wrong with them both.

“Sometimes,” Viktor says, like he wants to even the score. “I want you to buy me pretty things and tell me to sit on your knee.”

That’s not all he wants. If Yuri’s learned anything today, he’s learned that, but Viktor is Viktor. He’s no better at asking for what he wants than Yuri.

Yuri remembers _Vit’enka_ , and _sweetheart_. Most days he doesn’t understand Viktor at all, but he’ll never forget the way Viktor’s back arched when Yuri said, _my girl_.

“I can do that,” Yuri says, like he’s not thinking of rings, and how good Viktor looks in gold. For the first time, he wonders what Viktor would say if he really did go down on one knee, and asked to wrap his name around Viktor’s finger.

He thinks it might be _yes_.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My beta drew a lovely [cover for this fic](http://foxfireflamequeen.tumblr.com/post/165923649703/shortprints-happy-birthday-foxfireflamequeen), please take a look!
> 
> comments are love, and you can also [reblog on tumblr](http://foxfireflamequeen.tumblr.com/post/164501675433/pretty)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Pretty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12739767) by [AshiiPods (ashiiblack)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiiblack/pseuds/AshiiPods)




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